A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G Goodhind

Author:Jean G Goodhind [Goodhind, Jean G]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2013-06-25T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The day could have started better. The dishwasher decided to have one of its away days, so the kitchen resembled a Turkish steam room.

‘The rotation arm’s not turning,’ shouted the kitchen porter, his head emerging from the machine in a hot, sweaty haze.

Honey resigned herself to ringing the repair man. His answer phone gurgled into life telling her that he was away on a cruise around the Mediterranean and wouldn’t be back until the 16th.

She swore at the phone as she slammed it down. People could be so selfish. On holiday! Did he have no idea of her dishwasher’s fickle temperament?

A lever arch file of useful contacts left by the previous owner was her next port of call. As thick and heavy as a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica, she heaved it up on to the desk.

‘I need to enter all this stuff on our database,’ she murmured with a sideways glance at Lindsey. Her daughter’s face was presently lit by the computer screen.

‘That’s impossible,’ said Lindsey.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t know how to.’

Lindsey had a point.

‘By the way,’ her daughter added. ‘What’s the decoration hanging from the ceiling fan?’

Honey glanced over her shoulder at the closed door to her private office. She remembered the huge brassiere she’d flung into the air on her return from the kitchen last night. She’d left her bag on her desk in the office behind reception. As she’d grabbed it the contents had spilled onto the floor. The ‘brazier’ had been amongst them. Irritated by Steve’s snoring and then that mishap, she’d thrown the bra skywards. More aerodynamically designed than she’d thought, it had flown higher than she’d envisaged and landed on the ceiling fan.

She searched for and found an unbelievable excuse. ‘Those things have multiple uses don’t you know. Lampshades. Trendy, don’t you think?’

After sorting out a repair man for the dishwasher, she rang Francis Trent, aka Obadiah the Masai warrior. There was no response. Shame. He was the only person who knew the identity of the bloke who’d hired him.

Before dropping off to sleep, Doherty had told her about the other incidents at the Beau Brummell: misdirected coach parties, a rat in the pantry, and a series of paint jobs done on Stella’s Mercedes and Stafford’s BMW. Both cars had been the object of a spray-can fiend. The ridiculous hiring of a kissogram actor was over the top, but also a flaw in the perpetrator’s thinking. Someone had had it in for Stella and her chef. Francis had to have a name. Sylvester Pardoe fitted into this somewhere, but she hadn’t figured out where yet, and neither had Steve Doherty. He’d told her that over toast and coffee this morning – after apologising for falling asleep the night before. She’d made him suffer a bit, showing her displeasure, though not letting on about the floor show he’d missed. It could be a while before she was that keen again.

Totally out of the blue, Roland Mead turned up to talk business and sent the morning into a nosedive.

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